Sacrilege

I was not made for moderation.

There is a hunger in me that cannot be reasoned with. A hunger not for more, but for all. I want the entirety of it, this life. The ache and the ecstasy. The ruin and the resurrection. I want to drink from the marrow of stars, to taste the salt of lost oceans on my tongue, to stretch myself across the sky until I am but horizon.

They say Icarus flew too close. That his fall was a lesson in restraint. But I do not carry his caution. I carry his wonder. His holy defiance.
I carry what dared, not what broke.

But hear me.

My wings are not of wax. They are not softened by sun or doubt. They are bone and breath and arose before fear’s birth. Seamed not with obedience, but with the sinew of sleepless nights and the gold threads of unbearable dreams.

I don’t want to survive this life. I want to burn within it. I want to stand at the margin of the known and dive, swanlike, into impossible. To blaze across the firmament and leave behind a streak of myth.

Can you see it?

The sun, trembling on the lip of the horizon, a god catching its breath. The sky bruised with becoming night. And me, silhouetted against it all, eyes wide open, unblinking, sight itself a sacrament.

The air up here is thin. Sacred. Every breath is a prayer to beyond. Every heartbeat metronomic revolt. I was not built to cower in the shade. I was sculpted from chaos and starlight, and I crave the crucible.

Let me burn of reverence. Let the flames reveal what flesh alone could never be. I want to feel the sting of the divine on my skin. To press my palms to the furnace of existence and be baptized in its fire.

Do not mistake me for arrogant. I speak not of conquest. But of awe. Of longing. Of sacred fury. I do not want to own the sun. I want to become it, if only for a moment. To stand at the epicenter of radiance and let it blind me with lost illusion.

Let me weep molten tears. Let me unravel into light. Let me scream the name of every star as I fall, if fall I must. Even the fall would be flight, and that would be enough.

There are those who live carefully, who weigh each risk like a miser with his coins. And then there are those of us who were born reaching, who would rather burn brightly, briefly, than exist untouched in the shade.

I am not a modest flame.

What sire of such creation could be?

I am the hymn sung when gods repent. I am the echo of the first light, the last blaze before darkness. I do not come gently.

So I rise. Higher.

Toward the fire.
Toward the truth.
Toward the sun.